


Boys of Summer

by Evandar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Hogwarts, Underage Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:53:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1973115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evandar/pseuds/Evandar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer before they start Hogwarts is perfect, and Oliver wishes it could last forever. But that doesn't mean he and Marcus can't make plans for when school starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boys of Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



> Thanks for such an open and easily interpretable prompt. This is a pairing I don't write often, but that I love to read about, and I really enjoyed writing this for you. I hope you like it!

“Do you think we can do this at Hogwarts?” Oliver asks.

He’s flat on his back in the meadow between their houses, Comet 360 still clutched in his hand. There’s sweat sliding from his forehead into his hair, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away. It’s too hot to move any more, and it’s one of those moments he wants to last forever.

“We’ll be in different Houses,” Marcus says, and Oliver huffs.

He _knows_ that already. Marcus is a Flint and Flints are always Slytherins – Marcus isn’t going to be any different. Oliver doesn’t have that kind of pressure from his family, but he knows fine well he’s not as cunning as he’d like to be. He turns his head, looks at Marcus through the grass.

“So what?” he asks.

Marcus looks back at him. He’s what Oliver’s Ma refers to as ‘hard-faced’, which seems to mean ‘mostly nose and jaw’, but he’s got these wonderful eyes that Oliver thinks are actually kind of pretty. They’re a warm, soft shade of brown that makes him think of hot chocolate on winter nights, and they show everything that Marcus is thinking.

He’s nervous now that they’ve had their letters and school is looming in front of them. The cosy world that they grew up in is becoming so much bigger, and Oliver knows that Marcus is feeling lost – he knows he is too.

“Dunno,” Marcus replies after a moment. “Father just says that the other Houses don’t like Slytherins much.”

“And _my_ Da says that the Slytherins don’t try and make friends either,” Oliver tells him, even though it’s an old argument. They’ve both heard both sides of the story over the years, and while Oliver thinks his parents aren’t telling him everything, he’s pretty sure it can’t be anything terrible. Marcus is going to be a Slytherin – arguing against that is like saying that grass is purple - and Marcus isn’t a bad person so there’s no reason to say that other Slytherins are either.

“Anyway,” he says, “we’re best friends, right?”

Marcus smiles at that and nods, and Oliver grins back.

“So we should do this at Hogwarts,” he says, “and Houses don’t matter.”

And that’s the end of that, as far as Oliver’s concerned anyway. He and Marcus are best friends and they’ll be that way forever, and he might have to worry about what that means later, but for now he wants to lie here in the grass with Marcus only inches away and the sun blazing down from a sky so huge and cloudless that it looks like the ocean. He closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of the meadow grass rustling and Marcus’ breathing; breathes in the scent of wildflowers, earth and sweat.

Summer is his favourite season, and this summer is just perfect.

When he opens his eyes again, he looks over at Marcus again to find him watching him with his eyes all soft and warm. Oliver thinks that Marcus might love him; it’s not the first time he’s seen him looking at him like that, and he wants more than anything the courage to kiss him.

Or maybe, he thinks, biting his lip, it doesn’t need courage at all. It’s just Marcus – and while the thought of Marcus being _just_ anything is ridiculous, it’s true – and they’ve known each other _forever_. Their familiarity is the kind that Oliver sees between his parents when they share coffee and the _Sunday Prophet_.

He props himself up onto his elbows, releases his broomstick so that he can roll onto his side and get a bit closer. Marcus moves to meet him, and somewhere in the middle their noses bump and their lips brush, chaste and dry, and Oliver grins because it’s exactly how he’s imagined it. He reaches up a hand and tangles it into Marcus’ hair to hold him steady even as Marcus’ arm slides around his waist and pulls him that little bit closer. 

It crosses his mind that his Ma’s not going to be happy with him for getting grass stains on his robes, but it’s not enough to make him pull away. Kissing Marcus is like coming home. It’s summer and Quidditch and peach flavoured ice cream and all his favourite things rolled into one. He can’t stop grinning, which is making the kissing a bit difficult, but he’s not the only one so he thinks that’s alright.

“Reckon we can do this at Hogwarts?” he asks later, sprawled on his back again, but with Marcus’ hand wrapped around his own.

“Yeah,” Marcus replies. There’s no hesitation this time, and Oliver’s stomach flutters appreciatively. “If we can sneak off and play Quidditch then we can sneak off for anything.”

“Right,” Oliver agrees. “And we can always come here, anyway. On our brooms, I mean. It’s not that far.”

Hogwarts and Hogsmeade are only in the next glen, so his Ma’s been repeating ever since his letter came, brushing at his hair when she does so like he’s about to vanish forever and she’ll never get to touch him again. It’s hard to tell distance when you Floo or Apparate everywhere, but Oliver’s flown high enough to peer over the top of the mountain ridge and spot the castle crouching by the edge of the Black Lake, and he knows his Ma’s telling the truth. It’s not far at all.

“Don’t think we’re allowed to sneak out of the grounds,” Marcus says, but he doesn’t sound reluctant at all. In fact, when Oliver peers at him through the grass again, there’s a speculative gleam in his fantastic eyes.

“Probably not,” Oliver agrees. “But you’ll be a Slytherin, so you can plan how not to get caught, and I’ll be…” he thinks for a moment. His Da was a Ravenclaw and his Ma was a Hufflepuff, but they’ve both told him these things don’t run in families, and he thinks he knows himself well enough to guess. 

“Gryffindor,” he says, and Marcus says it at the same time.

“So I’ll get to nick supplies from the kitchens and brooms from the sheds - _totally_ unfair we’re not allowed our own – and we can come here any time we want to.”

It’s a plan. It’s a plan that no one can prevent them from putting to the test. If his parents couldn’t stop him from sneaking out to make friends with ‘the Flint boy’ then the teachers definitely can’t. Marcus is worth the risk of getting caught, he thinks, because he wants that familiarity where you can share coffee – or pumpkin juice, which is better – and the _Sunday Prophet_ \- more like the latest _Martin Miggs_ , and if Marcus tastes like home then that means that he probably is.

“Promise?” Marcus asks him.

“Yeah,” Oliver replies. “Promise.”


End file.
